Three nights ago I went to my first shift at Moria. Moria is another refugee transition checkpoint on Lesvos, but it was dramatically different from anything I’ve experienced thus far.
My first two volunteer shifts were overnight shifts at the International Rescue Committee (IRC) facility, and only one boat come through between the two of them. The people who did come in were dry, and for the most part seemed to be in good spirits. Praise God. My next shift was a night shift at Sykaminias, the facility that EuroRelief (whom with I volunteer), is in charge of. There were a decent number of people who came through, but the whole shift went very smoothly, as I worked the “back rope,” sending families one by one to the bus that would take them to the next transition point on their journey.
During this time I got to speak with a few people, who were all wonderful. Here is where I got my first snapshot showing at this has a purpose; what we are doing makes a difference. After speaking to a man from Afghanistan, he told me, just before he and his family went to the bus, “You people are so good. You are so nice. Turkey people are no good. But you are so good.” Who he was most likely referencing were violent, heartless Turkish smugglers who are charging these refugees extortionate prices to cross the Aegean in sketchy boats with fake life jackets. But not here. He saw something different. He saw goodness. That’s what we wish every one of these people sees when they get here. That there are people who show them kindness, who love them and care about their lives.
Then came Moria.
My first reaction to Moria was that it is what I imagine a refugee camp to look like: tons of people in a place that cannot hold them all. Moria is a camp comprised of several different relief organizations, all under the umbrella of the UNHRC, the UN’s refugee agency. Here there are volunteers and staff from organizations all around the world, all trying to do their part to help a constantly fluctuating number of refugees. My first day there can be best described in one word: overwhelmed.
When I entered the family housing compound that we help run, I was briefed on the current conditions and assigned to my position at the front gate. This position is one destined for heartbreak. When I got there, the family compound was already full, with a line of over 100 people still waiting to get in, most of whom had small children, many with infants. It was my job to let in anyone I could as soon as we created more space in each of the rooms. It was cold, and windy, and these people in line had been waiting for hours. I was told that no adult men, including fathers, could come in, because we needed to reserved any space we created for women and children.
In an instant I felt like I had become the man loading the lifeboats on the Titanic.
I didn’t come here to turn away people seeking shelter. I didn’t come here to tell people they have to sleep outside in the cold. But I had to. I had to protect the most vulnerable first.
This whole situation sucks. That’s all I could think. The more I tried to maintain order, the harder it got. These people were growing increasingly desperate. I was trying to communicate this to people who spoke different languages than me, and each other, with no translator. I was blessed by one man who stayed to help me translate for two hours, knowing that he could not come in. But it was still completely overwhelming. People were suffering, and I had to keep them outside.
When my teammate asked me how I was doing, I honestly told her that I was trying not to think about it, because I knew I would break down if I did. Eventually it slowly started to settle down, as somehow we were able to find space to fit in many more people. By the end of the night we were over capacity by double, but somehow everyone fit.
This was not the only thing that inexplicably multiplied that night. When the food finally arrived, we knew it would not be enough. We had 200 meals to give out to 400 people on our floor, many of whom had not eaten in a long time. So, we did the only thing we could do: we prayed. I got relieved from my position at the front gate and pushed the cart of food down the hallway as my teammates passed it out to the people in each room. While we were doing this, I just asked got if he could pull a loaves and fishes type miracle. So did everyone else on my team. We were originally told to tell people one meal was for two people. As we continued to pass it out, we realized we could start giving out 1-to-1 meals, and when we got to the last room, we went back down the hall and passed out more to anyone still wanting or needing food. When we reached the last room for the second time, a man brought out 7 extra meals the room didn’t need.
We started with 7 crates of 38 meals for 400 people. Everyone was fed, and we finished with almost two entire crates left. This doesn’t make sense.
But, Jesus. That’s all I got. That’s all I can say.
My second night at Moria was much less eventful, but was highlighted by some much needed normalcy. At the end of the night, when almost all the grown ups had gone to sleep, there was still a group of kids laughing and playing, several jacked up on sugar (which partially may be my fault as I let them keep going to get more tea). My latest shift at Moria (from 1-9 this morning) was also pretty uneventful, as the crowds had died down a bit and people were settled in for the most part when we got there. We spent time sorting and throwing away trash, then just helping anyone still awake every once in a while throughout the night.
Then, right before I left, I got another snapshot or why I am supposed to be here. Why this had purpose. Why this all means something. A man named Saed from Afghanistan came to me and introduced himself as his family was getting their things together to leave. He had been a translator for the U.S. in Afghanistan, so he spoke fluent English. He asked where I was from and what I did and how I got there, as asked from him as well. In our conversation, I lost count of how many times he thanked me for being there to volunteer, and how grateful he was. When I told him I had resigned from my job to be there, he paused, thanked me again, and said, “You have great humanity.”
This is what it’s about. Humanity. We are all in this together. I am not nearly as great as Saed thinks I am. But Jesus is. Just being there was enough for Saed to see the Holy Spirit, because it wasn’t my own goodness he was seeing. This has been true countless times already through my teammates as well.
I have so many questions about this whole crisis and so few answers. But I do not one thing. As a follower of Christ, I am called to be Jesus to people who desperately need him. I just need to be present for God to show up.
I am still in need of over $1900 to fully fund the cost of my time here in Lesvos, so if you are able to help financially you can do so at the following link:
https://www.gofundme.com/eqgmcdh3
As always, prayer is the most important thing I need right now. Thank you so much for taking time to read, and thank you for all your prayers and support already. Much Love and God Bless,
Andrew
